The Rising Tide
by Mandelene
Summary: It was supposed to be the family getaway of a lifetime, until tragedy struck. Now, they will do everything in their power to be reunited again, even if that means risking their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! Here's the first chapter to what will approximately be a three-shot based loosely on the movie "The Impossible". This story was actually requested by **saraalmezel** on Tumblr, so be sure to tell her how awesome she is for the idea. If you'd like to make a request for a story, you can PM me or find me on tumblr under the username mandelene, just as it's spelled here. Enjoy!

P.S. Happy Halloween!

* * *

" _I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,_

 _And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;_

 _And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,_

 _And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking_." -John Masefield, "Sea Fever"

* * *

He loves his family from one end of the earth to the other, from crust to core, through galaxy across galaxy and with all of the purity and strength that a man is capable of, but sometimes, even he wishes he could get a break.

He loves his children. He loves his husband. He loves who he is and what he does, but there are overbearing days too. And during those days, he must step back, take a breath, and remind himself why he loves the way he does.

Days like today.

"Alfred, you're kicking my seat. I told you to behave back there."

"Sorry, Dad!"

"Perhaps you ought to sit up front where I can keep an eye on you."

"No! Don't make me!"

A petulant whine echoes from behind him, and Arthur folds his arms across his chest in response, itching to scold his son properly. The eleven year old has been nothing but trouble the entire flight (a twelve-hour flight, mind you), constantly complaining about how uncomfortable he is or how the lady next to him keeps hogging the armrest. He is still too young and impatient to ignore the nuisances. As far as Alfred is concerned, the world revolves around him, and he places his needs above others without qualms.

It's a habit Arthur plans to break.

"My leg's asleep."

Thwump. Arthur's chair jolts forward again, and he can almost feel his brain rolling around in his skull as a result.

"Young man, when we get off of this plane—!"

"Oh, calm down, _mon cher_. We're all a little antsy," Francis says to him just before he can finish the threat. He takes off the headphones that he'd put on halfway through the flight. Smart man. "Alfred's just cranky because he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep. We'll set him down for a nap later."

At that, Alfred riles up again, all bristled and flushed in the face. He never takes hits to his pride very well. "Hey! I'm not some baby!"

Francis snickers and cranes his neck around to flash the boy a cheeky smile. "Of course you are. You'll always be my baby."

"No!"

At least their other son, Matthew, has been quite the angel. He's sitting between his parents, and Arthur is tempted to switch the boys' seats because Alfred is wreaking havoc, but the poor boy has been racked with bouts of air sickness and wants his Dad and Papa beside him.

Thus, Arthur and Francis dutifully tend to him during the trip. Well, Arthur does most of the actual tending while Francis rubs the child's back and tries to offer him some comfort.

"Even on vacation, you're stuck doctoring everyone," Francis notes. He thought a two-week winter holiday spent in Thailand would help his husband unwind and forget about work for a little while, but alas, he'd been too hopeful.

Arthur sighs. He doesn't mind having to take control of the situation. He knows being a doctor is a twenty-four hour job, and exhausted or not, he will be there for his son. He hands Matthew one of the anti-acid tablets in his carry-on bag and gives him a warm smile. "Take this, love. You'll feel better... Alfred! For the last time—!"

"I'm bored!"

"Don't make me come back there!"

"Stop shouting, you're upsetting Matthew," Francis hisses, brushing back the boy's sweaty fringe. So much for relaxing. He presses a kiss to Matthew's clammy temple and watches as Arthur presents a bottle of water to their son's lips.

"I'll give that boy something to be bored about."

"Shhh."

"Drink, Matthew. Tiny sips, all right? Bloody hell, did we remember to water the pot of magnolias in the kitchen before we left?"

Francis shakes his head and tries to refresh his memory. "That was your job."

"I thought I asked you to do it."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters! Those flowers were from my mother. What if they wilt?"

"We'll buy new ones."

"It's not the same, and you know it… Easy now, Matthew. Take a few deep breaths."

"I was dealing with business transactions all week for the office. I wouldn't have had the time to water the plants anyway."

Arthur clicks his tongue and checks his watch with a scowl. When will this agonizing flight be over? "I'm getting old. I can't remember a damned thing anymore, and I can't rely on you to lend a helping hand. You think that because you're a businessman, you're a cut above the rest of us."

"Don't start with that again. It's not true. I'm simply swamped with things to do during this time of year."

"Well, I'll have you know that I've been busy too. I want to see you treat middle-ear infections all day."

"D-Dad! I'm—"

With awe-inspiring speed, Arthur snatches up a barf bag, tears it open, and holds it up to Matthew's chin. Seconds later, the boy loses what little food he has eaten on the plane, stomach grumbling and gurgling against his will as a part salty, part acidic taste congregates in his mouth.

"Eww!" Alfred shrieks with a short laugh when it's over.

"I don't want to hear any commentary," Arthur warns, standing up to get rid of the mess. As he passes Alfred's seat, he gives the child a sharp swat on the arm to keep him in check. "You're getting coal in your stocking this year."

"Hah, funny."

"I'm not laughing, am I?"

Alfred squirms in his seat. It's hard to tell if his father is telling the truth or bluffing. "Really?"

Arthur ignores him, disposes of the bag in his hand, and returns with a disapproving look shortly afterward. One of his eyebrows is raised impressively, and he leans down to whisper into Alfred's ear. "You should be nicer to your brother."

"I am nice to him!"

"You shouldn't tease him. He may be a bit more sensitive than you are, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't respect him. Am I understood?"

Alfred's in enough trouble already, and he knows it's pointless to put up another fight. "Okay, Dad."

And then, at long last, the intercom system blares with life to let the passengers know they'll be landing soon.

The words sound so sweet against Arthur's ears.

* * *

"Welcome to Thailand."

Admittedly, the resort they are staying at is even more beautiful than the pictures. The long stretch of golden beach is visible from every window, they have a hot-tub in the bathroom, and the abstract portraits adorning the walls give the place a modern twist and freshness. It's clear that Francis's great taste has prevailed again, and Arthur can't be too upset with his husband after seeing the luxurious bed calling his name from the master bedroom.

As soon as he has toed off his shoes, Arthur drags himself to the memory-foam mattress and collapses face-first, groaning with pleasure. Can he stay here forever? Why go back to cold, rainy, old London-town when he can have this kind of spectacular sunshine dancing on his skin?

"It's nice, isn't it?" Francis asks him while the twins run circles around the perimeter in excitement. Matthew must certainly be feeling better.

"Mmm."

He hears Francis laugh, but he doesn't see what's so funny. In fact, he's already on the verge of dozing off when warm hands find their way to his taut shoulders and massage his aching muscles. Fingers pirouette down the sides of his back, and a pair of lips meet his jaw.

"Get some sleep."

He doesn't need to be prompted. His heavy eyelids droop before he can mouth a reply, and Francis rolls him onto his side so he can rest easier.

"Don't sleep for too long though. The ocean is waiting. We can go for a swim."

"What makes you think I'll swim with you?"

"You can't fool me, Arthur. I know you're simply raging with lust."

They both laugh, and Arthur pecks a grumpy kiss onto Francis's cheek. "Goodnight."

And even though it's three o'clock in the afternoon, Francis nods his head, brushes his nose against Arthur's, and mutters a quiet "goodnight" as well.

Deciding to leave the sleeping lion in its den for a while, Francis busies himself with watching the boys instead. Not to brag, but he feels like the greatest father in the world when he finds the boys admiring the view of the sea from the veranda, their eyes glued to the foaming tide.

Matthew notices his entrance first and asks, "Are there sharks in the water, Papa?"

"I'm not sure, but I don't want to find out," Francis chuckles before throwing an arm around Matthew's shoulders. "It's Christmas tomorrow. I have a feeling Santa will be able to find us even though we're far from home."

"Papa, Santa isn't real," Alfred says matter-of-factly. He's already sporting a mild sunburn on his face, which means that Arthur will have another thing to fret over when he wakes up. The man probably has a liter bottle of aloe vera in his suitcase, alongside his fully stocked first-aid kit.

"Then who bought me that wonderful watch last year?"

"Dad did."

Francis puts a hand over his heart and feigns insult. "No, I don't believe it."

Matthew sends Papa a pitying look and leans into his grasp. "You don't have to keep lying to us, Papa. We've known the truth for years. All of the presents always say 'from Santa' in your handwriting. Everybody at school—"

"Ah-ha! Look at what these schools are doing these days—stripping young boys of their imaginations. It's horrible!"

The twins roll their eyes when Papa isn't looking and realize that they're going to have to change the subject if they want to be spared from listening to another one of his rants.

Alfred makes the first move this time. "I'm hungry!"

"Me too!" Matthew chimes with a cheery smile that's meant to calm his papa's anger. "When are we going to get dinner?"

" _Mes lapins_ , I'll wake your father in an hour and we can go to one of the restaurants here in the resort. If I wake him now, he may bite my head off."

The boys laugh, but Francis is only half-joking.

He keeps an eye on the clock and when the hour is up, he upholds his promise and shakes Arthur's shoulder even though it pains him to do so. The man is snoring softly, something he only does when his energy reserves have been completely depleted. His eyes are bloodshot when he cracks them open, and his breath stutters as awareness returns to his senses.

"Time to get up, _mon amour_ , or we'll miss dinner."

Arthur wipes a hand over his haggard face and pulls himself into a sitting position with a wide yawn. "All right. I just need to change. These clothes remind me of the awful flight."

He unbuttons his shirt and Francis watches him with a coy grin, unable to restrain himself. He's seen Arthur change thousands of times, of course, but there's something special about it this time. Maybe it's the way he seems to glow with the backdrop of the beach behind him. He's still relaxed and drowsy, moving at a slower pace than he usually does. Everything is warm and fuzzy around the edges.

He doesn't realize he's being gawked at, and for that, Francis is incredibly grateful. He longs for moments when he can appreciate his husband without interruption. It's hard for them to have these little snippets of time to themselves, especially when the boys are always vying for their attention. One of these days, when they get back home, he will take Arthur out for a few hours so he can have him to himself. They will sit down for a cup of tea and talk like they used to before they were parents with responsibilities.

And then, the moment is over, and Francis averts his gaze when Arthur turns around.

* * *

"It's Christmas! It's Christmas! It's Christmas!"

Did someone knock him over the head with a sledgehammer last night? Thanks to the help of his jetlag, Arthur slept like a rock, and he's perfectly content with hibernating through the rest of their vacation, until a heavy weight settles itself onto his abdomen and squishes his bladder.

"My organs…"

Alfred lets off a shrill squeak and Arthur finally dares to greet his attacker with open eyes. Francis is already out of bed, and he can hear him speaking with Matthew in the distance.

"Hey, Dad! It's Christmas!"

Thankfully, a firm nudge keeps Alfred at bay. "So I've been told."

"What'd ya get me? Can we open the presents now? Please, please, please—!"

"I told you that you weren't getting any presents because you were being a pain in my neck."

"But you didn't mean it!"

"Yes, I did."

"Daaaad!"

Arthur maneuvers himself onto the hardwood floor and retrieves his slippers. He's in a "no nonsense" mood, especially since he hasn't had his tea yet. "Have you had breakfast?"

"N-No, but—"

"Breakfast first," Arthur declares before stretching his stiff legs. "And I want an apology for your abhorrent behavior yesterday. I expect you to act your age from now on. You're eleven years old, and that's too old for whining, sulking, and pouting to get your way. Am I understood?"

Alfred nibbles his lower lip and rocks on his heels, considering his father's words. "If I'm so big, how come you won't let me ride a skateboard?"

Not this conversation again.

"That's another matter entirely. You can't have a skateboard because you'll just end up with a broken bone."

"No, I'll be careful!"

"My decision is final, Alfred, and I'm still waiting for my apology."

Alfred crosses his arms and stamps a foot, and Arthur can feel a tantrum brewing. He doesn't want to have to punish the boy while they're supposed to be having a fun holiday, but he is walking on paper-thin ice. "It's not fair! All of my friends' parents let them have skateboards."

"I don't care what other parents are doing. You are my child, and my answer is still no."

"You're the worst! You never let me do anything cool!"

Arthur makes his tone stern and lowers his head to look directly at his son. "Don't use that tone with me. You can go and stand in the corner until you've calmed down."

"No!"

Without hesitation, Arthur snatches Alfred up by the wrist and yanks him to the corner of the bedroom while the boy shouts about what a mean and heartless father he is. Francis pops in briefly to see what the trouble is, and then he and Arthur continue about their morning routine as though all is peachy once more.

"It's so strange," Francis comments as they start munching on their breakfast. "I've never experienced a warm Christmas before."

Alfred complains loudly for a few minutes, but when he sees he's being ignored, he quiets down and feels sorry for himself instead. He's convinced he's in the right because Dad is too controlling and worries about everything. Why can't he have a bit of freedom?

Arthur fetches him when he's done eating, a paternal scowl in place.

"Is there anything you'd like to say to me, Alfred?"

The boy isn't ready to admit defeat yet, so he shakes his head.

Alfred is a good child at heart, and Arthur knows it. He's protective of his family, loves making others laugh, and is quick to dish out affection, but the adamant side of his personality is sometimes left untamed. He doesn't like being told what to do because it makes him feel like he is beneath others, even if Arthur and Francis have his best interests in mind.

"It's Christmas, lad. Don't do this."

When Arthur isn't given a response, he huffs and leaves Alfred to wallow in his bitterness. If the boy doesn't want to cooperate, then he will spend the rest of the day inside and won't be allowed to participate in family activities. He will break sooner or later, as he always does.

So, Francis, Arthur, and Matthew open the gifts without Alfred. They're all a bit disappointed and bothered by his absence because it just isn't the same, but Arthur will not cave into the child's desires. He knows he has to be consistent and firm, or else Alfred will never learn.

"A remote controlled car!" Matthew exclaims when he opens the biggest box with his name on it. He's smiling from ear to ear, and he catches both of his fathers in a hug. His other gifts include a new pair of sneakers, a stuffed reindeer, and a backpack with his favorite hockey team on it. He couldn't have asked for anything better, and it's nice to know that Dad and Papa know him so well.

Francis rubs Matthew's head as he tries on the sneakers. "Do you like your presents?"

"Yes, thank you!"

"I'm glad at least someone is happy," Arthur mutters before giving the boy a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, love. I must say, I quite like my gifts as well. A coat, books, a wallet, a tie, and a lovely set of candles. Thank you, Francis."

Francis casts a wink in response. "Why are you thanking me? You should be thanking Santa. I see Santa spoiled me this year, considering the expensive cologne he brought me."

"You've been sampling it at the mall for ages, and I thought—"

He cuts Arthur off with a kiss. "Santa is too kind. It's good to know he thinks about me."

Arthur can feel his ears turn red, and a tender feeling crawls up his chest. "You're right, he shouldn't be so kind… I should check on our rebel. He's been moping for a while now."

He gets up from the carpet and heads over to the bedroom once more, where he finds Alfred crying and sniffling with remorse. He has finally sacrificed his pride, and Arthur feels the soft spot he has for the boy make itself more pronounced.

"Alfred?"

"I'm sorry, Dad!" he weeps, drawing his knees up. "I'm sorry for being bad and not listening and—!"

"Look at me."

Teary blue eyes blink back at the firm green gaze, and Arthur knows a mini lecture is needed before things can be set straight again.

"There's a reason for rules, my boy, and when I tell you to do something, it's because it's what is best for you. I would never tell you to do something that I didn't think had a purpose. You're not allowed to say no to your father or me when we give you instructions, and when we make a decision, that decision is final and isn't up for debate. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes. I'm sorry!"

"Thank you for apologizing."

They exchange a hug, and Arthur lets Alfred bury his head in his neck. As infuriating as his boy can be, he's still _his_ , and at the end of the day, he will always forgive him no matter what trouble he gets into.

"I love you, Dad. I didn't mean the things I said."

"I know, lad, and I love you too."

"I deserve coal."

Arthur laughs and cards his fingers through the boy's hair. "I don't know about that. I'm sure Santa brought something with your name on it. Why don't we go and see?"

And sure enough, there is a new video game about robots taking over the planet from ol' Saint Nick. Alfred thinks about playing it right away, but then remembers that he has still left the beach untouched, and that's simply unacceptable. So, Dad and Papa take him and Matthew out by the water until lunchtime, and they spend the rest of the day playing outside and taking walks through the town to get to know some of the locals. It's a Christmas unlike any other, and by the time they return to the resort in the early evening, they smell like saltwater and seafood.

Alfred thinks it's too perfect to be true.

* * *

"Dad, I want to go swimming in the pool already."

"I know, Matthew, but you need to put a proper amount of sunscreen on first. Also, where is your cap? If you keep your head uncovered in this heat, you'll get sunstroke," Arthur chides, lathering another liberal amount of banana-scented sunblock onto the child's shoulders. "Lower your head slightly so I can get the back of your neck… That's it."

"What's sunstroke?"

"It happens when you're exposed to the sun too long. It can make you dizzy and give you a headache. Now, let me finish up your back, and then you can join your brother."

From his beach chair, Francis takes off his sunglasses and scoffs at the pair. A sudden gust of wind ruffles his hair, and it feels nice in contrast to the blazing heat. The weather is somewhat finicky, and he wonders if a storm is coming. He'd hate to have to spend the rest of the day inside. "If you put any more lotion on him, he's going to drown, Arthur."

"Hush up, I know what I'm doing."

"Ah yes, doctor. It's a relief to know you are on the case."

Arthur furrows and continues his application of the greasy cream. "You mock me now, but I'm trying to prevent our children from getting skin cancer, which, I'll have you know, is a very serious and life-threatening disease. This UV light spells nothing but trouble."

"Yes, because an hour spent in the outdoor pool is surely fatal."

"You're an incorrigible frog," Arthur snaps before returning his focus to their son, "Okay, Matthew, I'm finished. Run along and make sure your brother doesn't cause any mischief."

When their boy is splashing happily about in the water, Francis snorts with laughter and says, "You smother him."

"I do not. Excuse me for being cautious."

"You take 'caution' to a new extreme."

Arthur makes a show of flipping open the novel he has been carrying around, making it quite clear that he intends to give his husband the silent treatment. He refuses to waste another minute arguing. After all, he doesn't get leisure time often, and there's a long reading list he plans to get through before returning home.

Nonetheless, Francis hasn't finished his antagonizing yet. "I've been working on my backstroke."

Arthur purses his lips into a thin line and clears his throat. "Fascinating."

And then, Francis throws himself into the pool cannonball-style and starts up a bit of roughhousing with the twins, flinging water everywhere. Matthew and Alfred are both doubling over with laughter, soaked to the bone and rosy-faced.

It's an adorable sight, and Arthur watches them with his own smile, feeling so blessed and at ease. He only wishes they could share more moments like these, but Arthur knows he has to work, and his schedule is demanding. And although Francis finds ways to work from home, his career is just as stringent.

He vows to make more time.

"What—?"

A bellowing roar from the ocean breaks his thoughts, and he lifts his gaze to the wall separating the resort from the beach. The palm trees in the distance quiver, and before Arthur can recognize what is happening, a colossal wave of blue-green water swallows up everything in sight and curls over the protective wall. He's swept up by the current, and for a brief second he thinks he is having a nightmare.

That is, until he hears Francis screaming his name.

He swallows a mouthful of saltwater and splutters as another wave slams him into a nearby tree. All he can register is the sound breaking glass and a chorus of cries. It happens so fast he barely has the chance to breathe.

"Francis!" he screams back, struggling to hold his head above the water. His family is nowhere in sight, and just as he opens his mouth to try shouting again, he's ripped away from the tree he's clinging to and is carried off toward the general direction of the beach. Debris surrounds him on all sides, and he tries to grab at something—anything to help him stay afloat. "Francis!"

"Dad!"

Alfred. It's Alfred's voice, and he's sure of it. His eyes scour the endless maze of water and wreckage, and when his gaze finally lands on the boy, his heart almost stops. His son is desperately hanging on to broken scaffolding and begging for help.

"Alfred!" he calls to him, somewhat breathless. "I'm coming!"

He tries to catch up to the boy, and just as he begins to close the distance between them, something hard and wooden collides with Arthur's chest and lodges itself in his skin. He lets out a gasp of pain and looks at the water around him turn red, too shocked to react.

"Dad!"

Alfred needs him. His son _needs_ him.

With that thought dominating all else, Arthur breaks out of his stupor and pulls out whatever has impaled him, too full of adrenaline to let the pain bother him. Seconds later, Alfred is within reach, and he scoops him into his arms, so relieved that he worries he may lose consciousness.

They're both too tired to speak, and so, Arthur directs them toward shallower waters. The strength of the current recedes after a few minutes, and soon enough, they are far enough inland that the water only reaches up to Arthur's thighs.

"What was that?" is the first thing Alfred says once the worst is over.

"A tsunami," Arthur replies, keeping a firm hand against the wound on his chest. It hurts to breathe, and he can feel warm blood trickling away from the injury, but he knows he must be calm for Alfred.

"Is it over?"

"I think so."

"What about Papa and Mattie?"

It takes all of Arthur's willpower to keep his tears in his eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he's stuck in an unfamiliar country with a child at his side. Not to mention he's bleeding heavily without any hope for treatment. "I don't know."

"We need to go back and look for them."

"I need to get you to safety first," Arthur tells him, plodding onward. After a few steps, he stops and stoops down to get a good look at Alfred. He's unharmed, aside from a few scrapes and bruises. "Are you all right? Does anything hurt?"

"No, I'm—" The boy is bug-eyed, and he lifts a hand up to touch the wound Arthur is sporting. "Y-You're—"

"It's okay," Arthur assures him. He takes a breath to steady himself and continues walking even though he'd rather crumple to the ground.

But Alfred has been his child for too long, and he's been exposed to far too much of the medical field to fall for the consolations. "Dad, we need to get you help."

"We'll head toward town."

"W-What if Papa and Mattie—?"

Arthur scrunches his eyebrows and grimaces. If they can get to higher ground, they can get out of this damned water and see if anyone else is around. "Stop, Alfred. Not now."

They continue this way for a while, until Arthur abruptly pauses and Alfred runs into his back, confused.

"Close your eyes, Alfred," he says, swallowing thickly.

"Why?"

"Do as I say."

When he complies, Arthur takes him by the hand and guides him along. He does not want his son to see the destruction and the loss of life, not if he can help it. It isn't until they reach a clearing when he allows the boy to open his eyes again. Still, there's no one in sight, and Arthur can feel the onset of his body going into hypovolemic shock. If he doesn't sit down soon, he's going to keel over.

Alfred realizes how pale he's become, and he scopes out the area for a place to rest. There's a tall tree a few yards away, and if they climb it, they will at least be out of the way of the water.

"You okay, Dad?"

"Yes."

Unsurprisingly, Alfred isn't convinced. He urges his father to the tree, and by the time they make it, Dad is sweating and dizzy. Alfred shows him the best way to climb up to one of the sturdy branches, but Dad leans resignedly against the trunk and decides that he's too weak to manage it.

"Dad, please. You gotta get up here."

"No, Alfred. I _can't_."

He's never heard his father talk in this way, and he can't believe he's so willing to surrender. It's enough to make Alfred cry tears of frustration, and he slides down the tree to stand next to the man, sobbing against his wet t-shirt. "Please, Dad. You have to try. I don't want to think about what'll happen if you don't."

Arthur sheds a few tears of his own, and he kisses Alfred's head, breaths labored. How can he say no? "All right. I'll try."

He loses his footing more than once and scrapes his palms, but after much straining and tugging, Arthur is up in the tree at last and can finally lean back to rest. His awareness is patchy as Alfred hovers over him, fussing and crying and pleading with him to stay awake.

"D-Dad? Please, say something."

"The bleeding," Arthur groans, lifting his head slightly to look at the wound again. He's too tired to keep up the pressure on it, so he tells Alfred to do it for him instead. "Keep your hand on it, even if I start complaining that it hurts."

Alfred nods and keeps his eyes peeled for any sign of people in the distance. "I'll get help, Dad. Don't worry, okay?"

Arthur makes a noise of agreement and shudders. He's seeing double now and blindly hopes that Francis will find him and drag him out of this wasteland.

"Dad, I think I see someone. HEY! OVER HERE!" Alfred hollers, waving his arms at a pair of figures walking down the shore. "They see us! I think they see us!"

And that's the last thing Arthur hears before the world turns black.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dad? We're almost at the hospital."

He's rocked from side to side in the back of a truck, and every bump in the road feels like someone is carving his chest like a pumpkin. There's a hand around his, small but reassuring, and the little touch takes away the worst of the pain, even though he will never admit it. It's nice to know he's not alone—that Alfred is with him and there's a reason for him to keep calm.

Still, he hardly has the strength to speak, and it isn't until he's placed on a stretcher that he realizes the severity of the situation he's in. Someone has changed him into a clean set of clothes, but his wound hasn't been properly dressed, and Arthur knows this is a cause for worry. He tugs down his collar and steals a quick look at the gruesome mess of caked blood and sand. The skin around the entire left side of his chest is already turning an angry shade of scarlet, and it's hot to the touch.

"Infection," he declares, because hearing the word aloud makes him more alert. He needs to stay focused, and the rational part of his mind is ringing alarm bells while the irrational part tries to coax him back to sleep. "A-Antibiotics."

Thankfully, Alfred is all ears as he stands beside the stretcher and squeezes his hand. It's meant as a gentle reminder to his father that he will not leave him. "What do I do?'

"Call one of the doctors," Arthur says in between ragged breaths. He's pretty sure he's running a fever, and it explains why he's clammy all over. He thinks he might be able to coach Alfred through bandaging the wound if need be, but he's spared the thought when a Thai doctor strolls in a few seconds later, spectacled and beaming with optimism.

Arthur counts his lucky stars when he discovers that the man speaks English, and things don't seem so bleak anymore. He explains the predicament and within minutes, there's an IV in the crook of his arm that pumps a round of cephalexin into his veins. When that's taken care of, the doctor takes his leave because there are dozens of others that he must tend to, and thus, Arthur is essentially left to treat himself.

He accepts the challenge.

There are hundreds of poor souls in the hospital, all pouring in with different ailments, and Arthur will not use up the precious time of the staff if he can manage on his own.

"Alfred, I need you to find me some gauze, an elastic bandage, surgical tape, and maybe an antiseptic spray. Check the cabinets and drawers around the rooms or ask a nurse."

"Okay, I'll be back."

When Alfred heads off on the reconnaissance mission, Arthur is finally able to clear his mind. He thinks about Francis, Matthew, and all of the victims in this hospital and how it kills him to know that he isn't capable of doing a single thing to help. He's a doctor. He should be up and about and saving lives, but instead, he can't move a muscle. His body is still going through shock, and so, he pulls up the sheets he's been covered with to his neck, doing his best to stay warm. Ideally, he could use a blood transfusion, but he doubts anyone will go through the trouble of giving him one unless he's nearly comatose.

He takes a good look around. The place looks more like a factory than a hospital, considering how the patients' beds are lined up in neat rows throughout the large, warehouse-esque room. To his right is a young woman, talking to herself in her sleep. To his left is his IV line, and a little boy who can't go five minutes without being sick in his bedpan.

Alfred is back surprisingly quickly, and he drops the things he's found by Arthur's feet. It's everything he's asked for and more.

"Thank you, love. Hand me the spray first."

The boy gives him the canister, and Arthur shakes it as best as he can before he exposes the wound and sucks in an anticipatory breath. He makes sure to spray every bit of the injury, and even though it hurts like hell, it's a job that has to be done. He stifles a groan when a flash of pain forces him to squeeze his eyes shut, and Alfred hovers over him, waiting to see what will happen next.

The worst of the burning sensation passes, and then Arthur knows he must relinquish the rest of the work to Alfred. "Lad, fold the gauze into a square, and tape it onto the wound. It looks worse than it is."

Understandably, Alfred is reluctant at first, mostly because he doesn't want to end up doing more harm than good but also because blood makes him squeamish. He can faint at the sight of it, but Arthur trusts that the boy will push through his fear.

"Come on, love. It's just like when I fix your scrapes," Arthur tells him, gasping through each breath he takes. It is becoming harder and harder to breathe. "Be careful now…"

Alfred is as gentle as he can be, and although his patchwork is a tad sloppy, it suffices. His hands shake when he coils the elastic bandage around Arthur's torso, and Arthur showers him with praise to soothe them both.

"Well done. Don't make it too snug… That should be tight enough. Thank you, poppet," Arthur rasps when Alfred finishes, blinking through a haze of vertigo.

"Dad?"

"Yes, love? It's all right. Don't look so troubled."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Arthur's lips split into a crooked grin between his fits of huffing and puffing. "Of course I will be."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise," Arthur coughs, dragging himself into a reclined position to ease the stress on his lungs. "It'll take more than a cut to keep me down."

Alfred opens his mouth to reply, but then the boy to the left vomits again, and Arthur is suddenly reminded of their flight. That could easily be his Matthew in the bed beside him, crying, miserable, nauseous, and needing an adult to make it better.

He must do something to help.

With a small moan of discomfort, he stumbles out of bed and walks over to the Thai boy, fingers wandering to the child's wrist to check his pulse.

"Dad, what are you doing? You need to rest. The doctor said—" Alfred says helplessly, tears running down his cheeks. "P-Please, you're going to make yourself worse."

"It's okay," Arthur murmurs back to him before lightly pinching the skin of the Thai child's hand to check its turgor. It becomes clear that he's very dehydrated, and Arthur already knows what's causing it. With some IV fluids and rest, he will be fine, but no one has bothered to check up on him, and his tongue is so dry that it resembles sandpaper.

He takes the stand of his own IV line in hand and makes his way down the row of beds, scanning the place for a heplock and needle, but the hospital is so crowded and disorganized that the task becomes more difficult than he initially thought it would be.

Then, his doctor from before spots him and cuts his scavenger hunt short, arms flailing and optimism waning. "Sir, what are you doing? Go back to your bed."

"There's a boy—he needs an IV drip. I can do it, just give me the supplies."

"Ah, you are some kind of American doctor? You think you can come in here and do my job?"

Arthur wrinkles his nose at the mix-up. "I'm English."

"What's the difference?"

"Look, I don't give a rat's arse about the authority that you think you have or your ego. There's a boy dying over there, and it's obvious that you are understaffed. Now, either you can let me help, or you can let that child die from cholera. It's your choice."

The Thai doctor stares him down, and when he sees they are getting nowhere, he sighs and points to what looks like a storage closet next to a makeshift nurses' station. "You will find everything you need over there."

A curt nod is exchanged, and then Arthur bolts into action, ignoring the searing burn in his lungs. In minutes, he is back by the child's side with a bag of IV fluids and everything else he needs to start the drip.

"Dad, you need to lie down," Alfred chirps again, sitting at the foot of Arthur's empty bed.

"In a moment, Alfred."

And even though he's feeling a tad dizzy, Arthur is certain he can insert an IV in his sleep. Still, it's best if he takes his time, because he isn't going to be of any help if he botches everything up.

The boy doesn't seem to speak English, but Arthur mumbles soft words to him anyway, hoping his tone will be somewhat reassuring despite the language barrier. Then, he readies a needle and finds a good vein on the back of the boy's right hand.

"This'll sting a little."

It's smooth sailing from there, and when Arthur is sure that the IV isn't infiltrated, he finally goes back to his own bed and lies down before Alfred can have a panic attack.

His son frowns at him, and Arthur finds it rather amusing.

"You didn't have to do that."

"Yes, I did."

"But why?"

"Because when you have the chance to help someone, you should."

Alfred lies next to him, and Arthur cleans the tears off of his face and combs his hair back with his hands. The boy doesn't seem to know what to say, so they just stay there together, listening to the clamor of the medical staff bustling back and forth.

The Thai child has eased into a peaceful sleep, and Alfred smiles at him, butterflies flapping their wings in his stomach.

This is why he loves his father.

* * *

"ARTHUR? ALFRED?"

Papa's voice echoes against the darkening sky, and it makes Matthew quiver because he doesn't like it when Papa shouts, especially not when his tone is so forlorn and panicky. His father is pacing back and forth, and even though he's checked the ruined resort three times for the other half of their family, he isn't ready to admit defeat. He has overturned all of the dank smithereens, screamed his voice raw, and cried through his entire search, and Matthew wishes he would just stop because it hurts to keep watching him.

There are others in the search group, and when the sun had first started to set, Papa had managed to get his hands on a working cellphone. He'd tried to call Dad, and the other line rang once, twice, and then three times before going to voicemail. It was no use.

Now, Papa is even more frantic. He won't stand in one spot for too long, and Matthew can tell he's coming up with a backup plan.

"Mathieu," Papa walks over to him after another twenty minutes of searching. The stars have come out, and they're sparkling above their heads. "Alfred and Arthur might be in one of the hospitals around here. I will keep looking. I want you to go up the mountain with the other search party. They will take care of you and bring you to the shelter there, okay?"

His worst fear has come true. He's being left behind.

Fresh tears cloud his eyes, and he throws his arms around Papa's neck, afraid he will disappear too. "No! Don't leave me here alone, Papa! What if I can't find you again? What if—?"

"Shhh, Mathieu. I will be back tomorrow or the day after. I will come back for you."

"No! I won't let you!" he screeches, pounding his fist against Papa's chest. "I want to go with you!"

"Mathieu…"

"Don't leave me!"

"Be brave for Papa."

"I can't be brave!"

Papa sighs and leans down to give him a kiss, but it's not comforting. He lets Matthew cry himself out for a little while, and as they stand there on the beach, feet sinking in the sand, he picks up an orange seashell and warms it in his palm. It's quite pretty, and when Matthew hushes his sobbing somewhat, Papa presses the seashell into the boy's hand and kisses him again.

"Hold onto this shell, and whenever you feel lonely or scared, you can think of me and know that I am with you."

No, no, no. He won't let Papa trick him like this.

"Papa, they're gone. Forever."

It pains him to say it, but it's a last ditch effort to convince Papa that there's no point in leaving—that he can search the whole ocean, and still, he will not find what he's looking for.

Papa draws in a hitched breath and gnashes his teeth. "I need to know for certain, you know that."

" _Please_ …"

"Be a good _lapin_ and stay with the group. I have to go—everyone else is waiting for me."

Papa uncurls Matthew's fingers from where they are buried in his t-shirt and, after one final embrace, he gets in the truck with the others. Matthew screams for him to come back and chases after him, but he can't keep up, and Papa vanishes into the twilight.

He drops the orange shell that's still in his hands and stomps on it with his foot until it shatters.

Now he is left with nothing.

* * *

After his previous confrontation with Dad, the headstrong Thai doctor is the definition of pleasant by morning, and he makes sure Arthur is well tended to. He sets the Englishman on supplemental oxygen, and does periodic rounds, often asking if there is anything else he can get him.

But by midday, his brows crease together and he says something the thing that's been on Arthur's groggy mind for hours.

"I think you may be resistant to the antibiotic. The infection only seems to be getting worse, and it's attacking your lungs. We will try a new medication."

Arthur readily agrees. He doesn't feel much better, and he'll try anything to get Alfred to stop fussing over him. The boy barely eats the food he's offered, and he doesn't dare to leave Arthur's bedside for even a second unless Arthur asks him to bring him something. He appreciates the company, of course, but he worries that the boy will spiral into a state of depression at this rate. They need to at least try to keep their spirits up.

When Alfred asks him how he's feeling, he lies, and although he feels guilty for it, he knows it is for the best.

A nurse walks over to switch his IV bag, and Arthur makes up tall tales for Alfred as a way to pass the time. Most of them involve knights and fairy godmothers and princes who save the kingdom from peril.

He's halfway through telling one such tale when there's a tickle in his throat. It isn't much at first, just an irritation that he tries to cough away, but then, he can feel his muscles clamping down and his heart stutter with terror. His face goes red, his eyes water, and he can't catch his breath. A strangled wheeze leaves his mouth, followed by a sickeningly gurgle.

Alfred's hands are on his shoulders in an instant, and the boy chokes back sobs as he tries to figure out what's wrong.

And god damn it all, because Arthur didn't come this far just to walk right into Death's arms. Not here. Not in front of Alfred. Not like this, or he'll be rolling in his grave for eternity.

He tears out his IV, and with all of the energy he has left, he looks to Alfred's blue eyes, wondering if this is the last time he will see them. He wants to wipe away his tears and kiss his head. He wants Francis and Matthew to be here so that they can tell the boy that everything will work itself out—that it isn't the end of the world if Arthur isn't a part of it anymore. It's a terrible thought, but there's so much he wants to say just in case this is it—just in case he dies of damning anaphylaxis. The medication he hoped would save him may now ruin him.

Flucloxacillin. Bloody flucloxacillin—an allergy he never knew he had.

"Epi—" he whispers, relying on a thin stream of air to stay conscious. "Epi—"

Miraculously, this dual-syllabic fragment is enough. Alfred, bless his soul, knows what this means from all of the stories Arthur has told at the dinner table regarding his practice. He soars to the nurses' station and returns with two doctors, absolutely hysterical with anxiety.

A pinch in the side of his thigh lets Arthur know that he's been given epinephrine, and once that's done, another injection with a fast-acting anti-histamine it sent through his bloodstream.

It takes a minute, but Arthur's airways open up again, and he sags with exhaustion.

"Dad? Say something."

"No more flucloxacillin."

Alfred tries to laugh but ends up crying harder instead and buries his head in Arthur's neck. "You're okay now?"

"Yes, I'm okay."

"Don't do that again."

"I don't plan to," Arthur mutters, his fear ebbing. "Thank-you, Alfred. You're a clever boy for realizing the urgency of the situation."

"Well, _you_ taught me that… You and Papa always—never mind," Alfred stops himself. He's said too much, and he's reopening raw wounds. He cannot mention Papa or Mattie, at least not until Arthur is better. "Maybe you should go to sleep. I'll—I'll be here if you need anything."

It's strange. Arthur knows he's the one who's supposed to be consoling Alfred, not the other way around, but with the current circumstances in mind, he supposes he can let the tables be turned for today.

"I'm so proud of you."

When Alfred's sure his father has fallen asleep, he puts his head in his hands and weeps.

* * *

There are other children like him, ones that are traveling on their own without a destination.

They're a tough bunch, and it's hard for Matthew to let himself be sad in front of them, especially when he knows that many of them are worse off. The children that come into the shelter are often malnourished, underdressed, and sick with one disease or another. Sometimes, they are as young as two or three years old, and when these little ones cry, Matthew can feel his brotherly instincts kick in. More than once, he's held a toddler in his lap and sang his Papa's lullabies to them. Usually, it is enough to put them to sleep for an hour before they start crying again.

He remembers times when he and Alfred used to tell ghost stories under the covers late at night. They thought they had been sneaky for staying up way past their bedtime, but Dad caught them once on his way to the bathroom and made them go to bed early for the rest of the week. Of course, by then, they'd been so scared that "Bloody Mary" was going to appear in their bedroom mirror or that the ghost of Papa's grandfather was going to possess them after playing around with their Ouija board that they were happy to go to sleep as soon as the sun went down.

Matthew appreciates Dad and Papa's house rules now. He wants them to walk through the entrance of the shelter, gather him in their arms, and yell at him for being away from them for so long. He wants to be grounded. He wants to do extra chores and go without dessert. He'll go along with all of it as long as his parents come back.

He wants to fight with Alfred over the T.V. remote and call him stupid for putting on the annoying cartoons instead of the good ones. Burger King is still better than McDonalds. He wants to smack Alfred upside his unruly head of hair for mixing up their toothbrushes and not bothering to refill the toilet paper in the bathroom.

But most of all, he wants to catch Alfred in a chokehold and tell him how dumb and infuriating he is. He'll tell him how much he hates him and how he has corrupted his childhood because he could've grown up to become a normal boy if not for him. He's insufferable and spoiled. He's an attention-seeking moocher and a crybaby because he secretly loves it when Papa and Dad fuss over him.

He is the worst brother on the face of the planet—a complete terror even during his better days.

And yet, they are still brothers whether they are pleased with the arrangement or not, and Matthew begrudgingly loves him. He loves it when Alfred plays with his vegetables during dinner and sticks baby carrots up his nose just to make Matthew laugh after a bad day. He loves him when he gets Daddy to loosen up by throwing himself onto his back and trying to wrestle. He loves when he impersonates Papa by mimicking his walk and doing an impeccable French accent.

And when Matthew got a pesky splinter in his foot last week, Alfred had been the one to hold his hand and cheer him up while Daddy pulled it out with a pair of scary-looking tweezers.

But Alfred is gone now, and Matthew doesn't want to think of what horrible things may have happened to him. As much as he is a good big brother for the children at the shelter, Matthew needs his own brother by his side to comfort him. He needs Alfred to slap his back and flash him a cheeky grin. He wants Alfred to sit with him and rub his head. Together, they are invincible.

Without him, he can't find his own strength.

* * *

Dad is not getting better—that much is clear.

He can't hold down solid food, needs to be on supplemental oxygen 'round the clock, and his fever is so high that his eyes are all watery and bloodshot. Alfred doesn't know if the medicine isn't working, or if it's simply not strong enough. The hospital is running on limited supplies, and judging by how infrequently Dad's IV bag gets changed, Alfred guesses that whatever he's being given is the last of the stuff they have in reserve. Not even the Thai doctor is of any use anymore.

The place is so packed that even opening the window behind Dad's bed doesn't make the stuffiness go away. Everyone is either coughing, groaning, or calling for a doctor, and the chaos makes Alfred's head spin. He had helped Dad change his bandages earlier in the day, and they'd been soaked with sweat and disgusting pus. He isn't surprised that his father isn't recovering when it's so hot in the hospital that Alfred himself has to strain to breathe.

"Say you'll be okay," Alfred tells Dad even though his eyes are glazed over and he's a little delirious. "You have to get better so we can look for Papa and Matthew and go home together."

"Home," Dad parrots him with a tired groan.

"Yeah, home. We're going to go home when you feel better. Maybe Papa and Mattie are waiting for us."

"Home," Dad says again, and Alfred bites his tongue to keep from crying.

"I'll get us home somehow, Dad. We're going home."

It's his turn to protect Dad.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note** : Here's the final chapter! Thanks again to saraalmezel for the request.

* * *

He does not recognize himself anymore. He looks at the sand under his fingernails and brushes back the oily clumps that used to be his hair and wonders where the real Francis has gone. Where is the Francis who is always spick-and-span? Where is the Francis who catches everyone's gaze when he enters the room?

Then again, maybe this really is him. Beneath all of the glamour and razzle-dazzle style, he is a man like any other. Out here, in the sweltering heat of Thailand, he is just another face in the crowd. He is a man looking for his family like hundreds of others, and nothing else matters. They are all on the same playing field. Even he strains to remember that he is the chief executive designer of one of the most successful clothing companies in Europe.

He walks into the last hospital on his list of places to check, and it's virtually impossible to conduct a thorough search. The place is flooding with people of all ages and backgrounds, and Francis mistakes more than one child for little Alfred because the heat is radiating against his skull, and he can't think straight. Every boy with light hair looks like his son from a distance, and he's tired of getting his hopes up only to end up disappointed.

"Alfred!" he calls as he passes legions of patients on all sides. The clamor of people talking is tremendous, and he doubts whether his shouting is being even remotely effective.

He's reached a dead end. If Arthur and Alfred aren't here, then that means they didn't make it to a hospital or shelter. They were swept up by the water. They were—

"Alfred!" he tries again.

He should return to Matthew and take him home. He shouldn't have left him behind in the first place. He should've known better.

"Please… Alfred!"

 _Go home_.

He makes it through the rest of the unit and decides this is enough. He can't keep doing this. Matthew is probably alone, frightened, and upset. He's not a superhero. He can't fly around town and scoop his family back into his arms as though nothing has happened. He has done all that one lowly man can be expected to do.

He gives up.

* * *

Matthew waits for Papa. He doesn't come back the next day or the day after, but Matthew keeps waiting. Papa knows he isn't allowed to break promises, so Matthew doesn't cry when the days blend into one another and there's still no sign of him. After all, he trusts Papa and reminds himself every minute that his father loves him and would never forget about him.

He will be back. He _has_ to come back.

At least, that's what he thinks until some adults at the shelter load him onto a bus with several other children and close the doors. It takes him a fraction of a second too long to realize they are taking him away from the mountains.

Papa won't be able to find him again if they take him across the country.

He tries to make a run for the doors, but he's held back by the bus driver and another adult. So, he does what he's seen Alfred do a thousand and one times. He throws a fit.

He kicks and screams with all of his might for them to let him go. He's never disobeyed a grown-up before, and part of him knows that Papa and Dad would be angry if they saw him acting like a baby, but he thinks that this is an exception.

His teeth sink into someone's wrist and that's when the adults unleash their full strength on him. He's shoved into his seat, buckled in, and one of the men sits across from him to make sure he cooperates, eyes cold and unforgiving.

He's just not strong enough. Papa always tells him to be brave, and now he's failed him yet again.

He wants to ask where he is being taken, but no one on the bus seems to speak English or French, so everything's left up to his imagination. What if he's abandoned by the beach? What if the adults decide that they can't look after him anymore and take him far away from town? He doesn't know where anything is in Thailand, and he can't even ask for directions.

What is he supposed to do now? He doesn't know the address of the shelter, and even if he had the means to get back, who knows how long he'd have to stay there again, waiting for his papa?

He flops to the ground and shrieks.

* * *

He's delirious. Arthur knows this because he thinks he sees Francis rounding the corner to leave the unit, but it's most likely a hallucination. His IV no longer serves a purpose—he's not being given any medication because the Thai hospital doesn't have any medication to give—and he's just lying in the hospital and wondering when his body will decide to start shutting down. How much longer can he let the infection rage on?

"F-Francis," he says through chapped lips.

"Dad, do you want me to get you some water?" the boy offers before turning his head to check what Arthur is staring at. For a moment, his entire body freezes and his eyes become wild. "Is that—?"

Arthur rolls his head to the side of his bed and vomits.

"Oh, Dad," Alfred frowns and snaps his attention back to Arthur. They're both functioning on very little sleep, and they've been sitting in the horrible heat of the hospital for days. He's probably just seeing things. "I'll go and get that water, okay?"

Still, it can't hurt to check. And so, when Arthur is done dry heaving, and Alfred has sufficiently consoled him, he makes his way down the unit, eyes peeled for a tall man with blond, wavy hair. He feels a little silly. It feels like that one time he stayed up all night to see if the tooth fairy would leave money under his pillow, only to bear witness to Dad putting a five dollar bill on the nightstand in the early morning.

When he gets Dad his water, he'll come up with some ways to cool them down, and maybe they'll start thinking rationally again. There's got to be some ice they can chew on somewhere.

He walks circles around the entire second floor, and unsurprisingly, he doesn't see anyone who might even resemble Papa. It's just stranger after stranger.

He sighs and makes a beeline for the water fountain. He fills a plastic cup halfway, knowing that Dad probably won't be able to stomach any more than that, and then, he swivels around on his heel to head right back because he doesn't want to leave Dad alone for too long.

And as he turns toward the rows of patients, a flash of yellow grips his attention. The lobby is swarming with people, but there's no mistaking that walk and that hair, even though it has lost some of its luster. He drops the cup of water with a splash as his blood goes cold and goosebumps race down his arms. He moves his mouth to scream, but everyone else is so loud, and he is so paralyzed with shock that his tongue forgets how to do its job.

Papa. He has to get to Papa.

* * *

They are stopping for fuel—Matthew has gathered that much.

The bus comes to a halt at a busy headquarters established by tents around town to help victims of the tsunami. Some provide clean water and others serve as stations to record the missing and the deceased. There's a long line of people looking for their families and loved ones, and Matthew watches from a distance as many of them grow impatient and start shouting at the overworked people who are trying to help them. He doesn't blame them for being frustrated; he's feeling just as confused and afraid. All it takes is a drop of fear to bring out the worst in people.

A fish market has been set up to provide food, but even those resources are scarce, since there aren't many people who are willing to do the fishing when they're either physically and/or mentally drained.

To emphasize this thought, Matthew's stomach grumbles in complaint as the smell of carp frying on a skillet reaches his nose.

The food at the shelter didn't compare to Papa's meals, but nonetheless, he was always grateful for whatever he was given. However, now that he's on this rickety bus, he doesn't think he'll be given any nourishment any time soon, and he's so hungry that he swears he could easily eat one of Dad's horrible versions of shepherd's pie without drowning it in salt and spices.

The bus driver comes back with gasoline in a large container and makes small talk with the other adults supervising them as he works. They seem to be laughing and having a good time, which is a nice shift in mood from what Matthew has gotten used to over the past few days. The joy on the men's faces takes away some of the nightmarish reality that they're in, and Matthew gives a long sigh as he lets all of his worries and stress leave him for just a second.

"Papa!" he hears someone cry when the moment is gone.

It sounds like he's the one saying it, and Matthew's almost convinced himself that it's all a daydream when suddenly the shout is repeated.

"Papa!"

He cranes his neck out of the nearest window of the bus and squints through the harsh sunlight blurring his vision. It's a mirage. It's a dream.

It's Alfred.

He doesn't have to tell his feet to move because he throws himself out of the door of the bus without even realizing it. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears and the endless chatter of people that drags on as he runs across sandy cement. It all becomes white noise as he flings his arms out and screams across the dreary crowd, sick with anxiety because even though his brother is so close, he's still worried that he may lose sight of him.

"Alfred! Al! ALFRED!"

His voice cracks, and his feet slide from underneath him as he trips over a rock.

"ALFRED!"

Just as he's falling, he sees the boy's gaze hopscotch over to him, and his piercing blue eyes in the mist of red heat double in size.

"Mattie!"

He's sobbing on the ground when Alfred makes it to him, and his brother's arms drag him up like he's a ragdoll before a wet face presses itself against his shoulder. Both of them are a mess of tears, grime, and sweat, but they have never been so happy to be alive as they are in that moment.

"Found you!" Alfred sings as if they've been playing a round of hide-and-seek all this time. He squeezes Matthew hard and lifts him a few inches off of the ground with the biggest smile that Matthew's ever seen, and it puts out the fire of fear in his belly. It's like all of the energy and life in his body has been restored, and it makes him cry and laugh and cry some more.

Alfred is here now. Everything's going to be okay. He has Alfred. Stupid, idiot, wonderful, fantastic Alfred. They can figure this out together.

And then, when he thinks he's gained enough courage to finally end their hug, another set of arms cascades around them. They are unrelenting and firm, but familiar.

" _Mon dieu_!"

Matthew finds himself buried under all of the affection, and it takes an entire minute before he is able to peek his head out between the mountain of limbs. Alfred's arms are still holding his shoulders, but the back of his head is cupped in a warm, calloused palm.

"Papa!" he murmurs despite the fact that his tongue feels like a brick in his mouth. Everything happens so quickly that he can't process it all at once, but it doesn't matter because Papa tugs them close and kisses their heads until he tires himself out.

"My poor boys. _Dieu merci_! Come here! Don't you dare let go of me! Do you understand?" Papa yells at them, even though his tone is dripping with tenderness. "Matthew, I don't think I want to know how you ended up here, but I am thankful that your guardian angel brought you back to me."

Even though he knows he has every right to be completely furious with Papa for doing what he did, Matthew cuddles into his chest and lets himself be held, deciding that there will be time to be angry with him later. Maybe Papa is right and he does have a guardian angel or maybe it's fate that helped him out, and though Matthew doesn't consider himself to be a very spiritual person, he does feel like the forces of the world have finally been aligned in his favor.

"My boys… Oh, my boys…"

When the group hug is over, Papa takes a step back and looks Alfred over with extreme care. It's rare to see him be so fretful because Dad's the one with the reputation of being a mother hen, and Matthew can tell that Alfred is taken aback as well by Papa's concern.

"Are you hurt, Alfred?" he asks as he grabs ahold of Alfred's chin and turns his head from side to side. "Be honest with me."

"I'm okay, Papa. I promise."

Papa takes a breath to steady himself, and then he pecks another kiss onto Alfred's nose and nods. "I'm glad, but look at how sunburnt you are!"

Alfred lowers his eyes to examine the skin of his arms and legs, and sure enough, it is pink and peeling. "I didn't even notice. It doesn't hurt too much."

"This could've been much worse," Papa mumbles and rubs a bit of dirt off of Matthew's cheek. It's almost perfect. The whole gang is nearly here. "Do you know where your father is?"

The question makes Alfred uncomfortable, and he rocks on his feet and puts his hands behind his back before he responds, "He's in the hospital."

Papa stiffens. "But I thought I had checked—"

It frightens him to think that he's been so careless in his search—that he had given up just when he was so close to succeeding.

"Bring me to him, Alfred."

* * *

"Arthur? _Mon cher_ , can you hear me?"

The cool fingers carding through his hair feel absolutely exquisite against his burning scalp, and he moans as they suck away some of the heat. Not a moment later, a wet hand-towel is dropped on his forehead, and he shivers with delight.

"Can you try opening your eyes for me?"

His vision is glassy and slightly unfocused, and when he registers who it is that's speaking to him, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. "Am I dead?"

Francis chuckles dryly and knocks their noses against each other. "No, _mon amour_ , you aren't dead. You are very much alive."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm certain."

"Okay…"

"Say something else. How are you feeling?" Francis prompts him as he mops up the sweat on his forehead with the towel.

The frog is surprisingly relaxed, and Arthur wonders just how long he has been delusional for. He contemplates everything for a second, and when he can't come up with anything profound and witty to say, he simply hisses, " _Bloody_ hell."

It makes Francis bark with laughter, and Arthur can feel happiness swelling up in his chest. He has been waiting to hear that laugh for far too long. He can't decide if it's real or not, but he wants to believe it is, and that's good enough for him.

"Well, I know you're going to be all right if your sailor's mouth is still intact."

His droll reply is second nature. "Pardon my French."

"The doctor warned me that you would be manic and unhinged," Francis teases. "He thinks that you will be fine with some stronger antibiotics, but getting them will be tricky. You're getting one dose here, and the rest will have to be taken at a hospital back in London. The flight will be uncomfortable in your condition, but I was assured that there shouldn't be any complications from it."

He can think of a hundred things that he wants to tell Francis, but he's so sleepy that he can't be bothered. Whatever is in his IV bag now has put him in a drugged state.

"Matthew and Alfred?" he mumbles.

"They are both fine. By the way, your brothers arranged our flight. They're very worried about you, contrary to what you might believe. They'll be waiting for our arrival at Heathrow."

Now he knows he's definitely in some convoluted dream. His siblings have always despised him with a passion, and Arthur can't recall a single time when they've been considerate of him except when he dislocated his shoulder when he was twelve. His second to eldest brother, Allistor, was too rough with him whilst they were playing soccer, and he'd landed him in the ER. For an entire week, Allistor had tended to Arthur as though he were king, and Arthur basked in the attention and often took advantage of his kindness.

Since then, he's simply pretended that his siblings don't exist.

"They've had a change of heart," Francis suggests as he traces Arthur's body with his eyes. He knows his husband will be all right with some medication and rest, but even so, seeing Arthur in such a dreadful state makes him uneasy.

Sensing his worry, Arthur slithers his hand into Francis's with a crooked smile and says, "I'm so ha—happy to see you."

"Oh, stop, or I might get the impression that you love me. It's not nice to lead people on, _mon chou_. I'll forgive you this time, since you're running a fever."

"Bastard, that's the l-last time I'll—" Arthur's cut off by a horrible shiver, and Francis kisses his temple to calm him. They can have a row later.

When they are all healthy again and step through the door of their home in London, Francis will admit that it was, in fact, his job to water the magnolias, but he had forgotten, and Arthur will give him an earful, and everything will be back to normal again. They will move past the horrors they have seen. He knows they will mourn before they can see life with new eyes, but that's okay. They should be upset. They should be allowed to cry.

And with this in mind, Francis carefully rests his head on Arthur's shoulder and reveals his tears of relief. Relief because they have found each other again, against all odds. He kisses Arthur's cheek for good measure and balks at how visible his ribs are through his shirt. He will cook them all a dinner fit for the royal family as soon as he gets the chance. Dinner and _tea_ , of course, because although Thailand is boiling, Europe is experiencing polar temperatures this time of year.

Yes, English Breakfast with a touch of milk and sugar. Just the way they like it.

"You sentimental loon," Arthur finally whispers to him fondly, his own eyes watering, though he does a wonderful job of concealing it. "If you ever leave me again—"

Francis chuckles at the half-hearted threat as Arthur thumbs away his tears. It's true, he is too sentimental for his own good, but they're both guilty of that crime.

"I won't leave," Francis assures with a sniff. Now that he's gotten that out of his system, he should round up the boys and get Arthur discharged. They need to be at the airport in the evening, and Francis wants to be sure he's given enough time to get everyone fed and ready on time. Not to mention he needs at least two hours to get Arthur in a decent-enough condition to endure the flight.

"You had better not," Arthur adds, acting gruff. He's just about to ask Francis to bring the children to him because he needs to see Matthew with his own eyes to be convinced that he's all right, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, his twins come gallivanting over to his bed, caught up in some petty argument. Like father, like son, he supposes.

"You're only older than me by like two minutes or somethin'."

"More like fifteen minutes."

Alfred pouts and hops onto the bed without hesitance. "Nuh-uh! Hey, Dad, you're awake!"

"It would seem so," Arthur replies, holding out his arms to invite Matthew over to join them. "Come here, love. Let me get a look at you. Thank goodness you're all right. I've been worried sick. How are you feeling?"

Matthew gives him a shy smile and hugs him around the waist, mindful of his injury. "I'm okay now. I missed you."

"Oh, and how I've missed you, my boy, but everything's all right now."

"Are you going to get better soon?"

At that, Francis steps in and steals another quick kiss from Arthur, ignoring the boys' giggling as he does so. "He's going to be just fine, Mathieu. Papa is going to take good care of him."

"I can take care of myself just fine," Arthur protests, sitting up to prove his point. A wince escapes him though, and Francis pushes him back down with a firm but cautious touch.

Despite Arthur's baleful glare, Francis smiles at him and says, "Let me be in control. I will protect you, _mon cher_."

"I didn't ask for your protection."

"You didn't have to. I'll do it anyway."

"And why's that?"

"Because I love you."

Arthur sulks for a moment and snaps, "Well, Lord knows that's an inconvenience."

If Francis notices the glimmer of true affection in Arthur's eyes, he doesn't mention it, but Arthur still has a sinking feeling that he's been caught. Is he really that predictable?

The boys chortle at his expense.

* * *

"I'll sit next to Dad! Y'know, just to make sure he's okay and everything."

Francis can see that Alfred is quickly growing up to be the same kind of worried and irritable character that his father is, and it's both an endearing and horrific revelation. Dealing with one Englishman is enough, but as much as he wants to tell Alfred to stop making a fuss and to take a seat beside Matthew, he can't find the heart to follow through with it. He takes one look at Arthur (who is heavily dosed with a blend of antibiotics, painkillers, and fever reducers) and decides that it won't hurt to hand down his role of caretaker to Alfred for a little while. If monitoring Arthur will give Alfred a reason to stay well-behaved, then Francis happily approves.

"Okay, _mon lapin_. In that case, I will sit with Mathieu. Your father is groggy, so let him sleep."

Alfred doesn't spare a second before he takes up the designated seat and leans his head against Arthur's shoulder, listening to the man's slow breathing. He's dozing but wakes up when he feels Alfred's presence, eyes at half-mast.

"You should go back to sleep, Dad."

Arthur stares at him for a long moment and blinks. "I'm so pro—"

"Huh? What is it?"

"I'm so proud of you," he finishes. "You've grown over the course of this trip… Matured, even."

Something bats its wings in Alfred's stomach, and he can't hide the blossoming grin on his lips. It's not often that he gets praise. "Really?"

Arthur nods. "You helped care for me even though it was difficult and frightening. Thank-you, love."

Alfred's choked up. He doesn't know what to say to that, and so, he doesn't say anything at all. Instead, he swings his arms around Arthur's neck and hugs him as hard as he can without causing him pain.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. I'm sorry I don't always listen when you tell me to."

Arthur chuckles and offers him a sleepy smile. "I love you too, and don't worry about that. You don't have to be sorry. Even though you're maturing, you're still a child, and you're allowed to make mistakes."

Alfred sighs against his chest and makes a sound of agreement. "I'm glad we're going home."

"Me too."

"I've never missed my room so much. Let's not take a vacation for a long time."

"I don't know about that. I'm sure that after a week spent at home, you'll want to leave again," Arthur murmurs, running a hand down the boy's back.

"No! I'll never say anything bad about our house ever again!"

"I'm holding you to it."

Their hug comes to an end when the flight attendant asks them to put on their seatbelts, and Arthur watches Alfred go back to his seat with heavy eyes. He could go for a brief nap. The more he sleeps, the less he'll have to pay attention to how much he despises flying.

But then, he hears Matthew complaining about his queasy stomach from behind him.

Just like that, resting time is over.

* * *

"I love you, doormat! I love you, coat rack! I love you, weird painting on the wall that Papa won't get rid of because it's supposed to be fancy. I love you, couch!" Alfred shouts as they walk into the house, suddenly appreciating every nook and cranny of their humble abode. "I love you, ugly picture of Mattie as a baby!"

Matthew frowns. "Hey!"

"Boys," Francis warns, breaking up the quarrel. "Can't we have a moment of peace before you two start arguing again? We've only just arrived home. Let's show a little self-restraint."

He thinks his lecture might get through to the boys, but his hopes are quashed when Arthur storms out of the kitchen, pale and a bit unsteady on his feet, yet much healthier since they left Thailand. He holds up the pot of godforsaken magnolias, and Francis massages the bridge of his nose to brace himself.

"I knew it! They're ruined!" Arthur exclaims with a scowl. "I can't trust you with anything, can I?"

"Trust me? Who was the one who got us home safely?"

The twins exchange dubious looks, trying to determine who will be the one to pacify the impending disagreement. This time, Matthew supposes he can offer himself as tribute. He saunters between the two men, casts his arms out and parrots Papa's words, "Can't we have a moment of peace before you two start arguing again? We've only _just_ arrived home. Show some self-restraint."

Both men have the decency to look guilty and ashamed, but after simmering down for a few seconds, they break into a fit of laughter and shake their heads. If they're up for arguing again, things will be all right. They're both sure of it.

Arthur shuts his eyes, listens to the hum of the refrigerator, feels the cold tiles beneath the soles of his feet—takes a big breath and a step back…

He loves his family.

From crust to core.

Through galaxy across galaxy.

And with all of the love that a man is capable of.


End file.
